...listed as I call them in my head.
-Funny girl I've never talked to that 'likes' errthang I do
-Super cool cousin I've met twice and want to be like/steal boyfriend from
-Former trainer/dykiest straight chick ever
-Good friend who's profile photo is still that of his dead dog. Sympathy...but take it down, yo
-Kid I met at a fake modeling gig whose beej-virginity I took
-Kinda needy boring would-look-good-minus-15-lbs chat guy
-Chick I met once through friends who thought I was funny so we like her
-Saskatoon friend with amazing hair and a huge ass I will never get all up in
-High school choir friend whose pubes I saw that one time
-Obese suburban friend with whom I have tons in common, obesity not withstanding
-High school best friend WHO NEEDS TO FUCKING TELL ME WHAT SONG SHE WANTS ME TO SING AT HER WEDDING IN 3 WEEKS
-Jew Gay with big ears
-Morbidly obese cousin
-Mother of the husband of the sister of a good friend who posts stupid shit about bunnies and breast cancer (sorry)
-Cantor who gave me a handy-j in Israel
-Guy who might sell me drugs if the first 5 people I call are not answering
-Aw, she was fun!
-Cousin with undisclosed mental retardation (legit)
-Hot South African that stole the role of Tevye from me by playing him with a Jamaican accent
-Macedonian friend of a friend who is so good-looking I want to bone then kill him
-Brazilian kid from Manhunt I have never talked to
-Demi-midget
-Bird girl that had a kid at 21
Sorry. Twitter has taken all the singular funny things I think about that normally become blog posts and turned them instant 140-character gratification. So just follow me on Twitter. Plus, I've accrued almost twice the followers there in two months than I have here in 7 years...so, ya know, suck on that.
Showing posts with label Oh you gotta have.... Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oh you gotta have.... Show all posts
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
So many tags worked for this one
"I'm scared that I'm going to end up alone. I'm scared that I'm always going to be somebody's friend, or brother, or confidant, never quite somebody's everything. Mostly I'm scared I'm never going to find a guy that I love as much as I love you."
Okay, this is a quote from Dawson's Creek, so first off, fuck you for judging me. Secondly, just shut up and keep reading.
I don't deal all that well with male friendships. I know this is a huge gay stereotype, but as much as I hate having to identify with anything gay (self-loathing homo much?), it's the truth. They make me anxious. Despite having a few close male friends, they're sort of outliers, as though women are my own species and I have a few extraterrestrial buddies on top of that. Whenever I'm with a guy friend, I am keenly aware that I am indeed with a guy friend.
This brings us to the opening quotation. I have a male friend that I am not in love with. This is not remarkable, or shouldn't be at least. I do, however, love him very dearly and in the absence of someone to be in love with, this can muddle the brain at times. This is usually pretty innocuous, little jealousies here and there, an odd dream from time to time. I have these with most of my friends actually, but for some reason when they happen with him...I dunno, they just cut deeper.
I am not attracted to straight men. Not. Ever. This single fact is likely the reason why we were able to become friends and remain that way. Sometimes I think that despite all the various facets of our relationship, if this one fact were suddenly called into question then the entire friendship would be at risk, like the most architecturally sound house being build atop a single brick that you didn't know was holding up the whole thing and one day it crumbles and the entire structure comes crashing down. We can only be friends because I don't believe this brick exists. Still, the house exists and it is on the closest friendship-property I own next to adding the word 'in' before love. If you understand the metaphor I'm going for here then bravo, 'cause frankly it's 1:30 in the morning and I'm struggling to get it.
It terrifies me that I could spend the rest of my life (because this friend is a lifer) putting heavy, inappropriate, misguided internal pressure on this person because, for no other than being wonderful, he has been cast as my occasional closest-thing-to. I've stated before that I believe a person - or, more specifically, I - can be happy being alone during their life and I still believe this is true. However, as someone who is capable of romantic love and has experienced in short yet epic bursts, I think certain elements need to manifest in other, only slightly torturous ways, such as not being in love with your friend but on occasion thinking as if you were. All of it boils down to this: I am capable of loving another person so much, as witness to how deeply I care for this friend, that as great as it is, if this was still only the closest I could ever get and I never found someone I loved more than him, I would look back on my life not with regret but with such sadness.
A couple enders:
1. I've been incredibly scared lately of my social disinterest in love. I've been thinking that I grew out of it, along with the other passions that ruled my early adulthood, from falling deeply into the hearts of virtual strangers to practically destroying my house in decorating for a party. But my heart has been beating so fast as I've been writing this post, and I turned off the lights and told myself to go to bed twice before deciding to just get up and pour this out. So maybe I haven't outgrown my irrational passions. They're heartbreaking but I want them around forever.
2, I've been spending a lot of time recently talking with a friend about their problems and I suspect because of this mentor-mentee relationship that they might have started having certain feelings of one-sidedness about the sharing of their traumas, that because of the advice I've offered that I am above emotional upheaval. If you are reading this, I hope this proves that I am just as weak and scared, and that we're just two people talking.
Okay, this is a quote from Dawson's Creek, so first off, fuck you for judging me. Secondly, just shut up and keep reading.
I don't deal all that well with male friendships. I know this is a huge gay stereotype, but as much as I hate having to identify with anything gay (self-loathing homo much?), it's the truth. They make me anxious. Despite having a few close male friends, they're sort of outliers, as though women are my own species and I have a few extraterrestrial buddies on top of that. Whenever I'm with a guy friend, I am keenly aware that I am indeed with a guy friend.
This brings us to the opening quotation. I have a male friend that I am not in love with. This is not remarkable, or shouldn't be at least. I do, however, love him very dearly and in the absence of someone to be in love with, this can muddle the brain at times. This is usually pretty innocuous, little jealousies here and there, an odd dream from time to time. I have these with most of my friends actually, but for some reason when they happen with him...I dunno, they just cut deeper.
I am not attracted to straight men. Not. Ever. This single fact is likely the reason why we were able to become friends and remain that way. Sometimes I think that despite all the various facets of our relationship, if this one fact were suddenly called into question then the entire friendship would be at risk, like the most architecturally sound house being build atop a single brick that you didn't know was holding up the whole thing and one day it crumbles and the entire structure comes crashing down. We can only be friends because I don't believe this brick exists. Still, the house exists and it is on the closest friendship-property I own next to adding the word 'in' before love. If you understand the metaphor I'm going for here then bravo, 'cause frankly it's 1:30 in the morning and I'm struggling to get it.
It terrifies me that I could spend the rest of my life (because this friend is a lifer) putting heavy, inappropriate, misguided internal pressure on this person because, for no other than being wonderful, he has been cast as my occasional closest-thing-to. I've stated before that I believe a person - or, more specifically, I - can be happy being alone during their life and I still believe this is true. However, as someone who is capable of romantic love and has experienced in short yet epic bursts, I think certain elements need to manifest in other, only slightly torturous ways, such as not being in love with your friend but on occasion thinking as if you were. All of it boils down to this: I am capable of loving another person so much, as witness to how deeply I care for this friend, that as great as it is, if this was still only the closest I could ever get and I never found someone I loved more than him, I would look back on my life not with regret but with such sadness.
A couple enders:
1. I've been incredibly scared lately of my social disinterest in love. I've been thinking that I grew out of it, along with the other passions that ruled my early adulthood, from falling deeply into the hearts of virtual strangers to practically destroying my house in decorating for a party. But my heart has been beating so fast as I've been writing this post, and I turned off the lights and told myself to go to bed twice before deciding to just get up and pour this out. So maybe I haven't outgrown my irrational passions. They're heartbreaking but I want them around forever.
2, I've been spending a lot of time recently talking with a friend about their problems and I suspect because of this mentor-mentee relationship that they might have started having certain feelings of one-sidedness about the sharing of their traumas, that because of the advice I've offered that I am above emotional upheaval. If you are reading this, I hope this proves that I am just as weak and scared, and that we're just two people talking.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Cars are real dicks
An old university friend was in a car accident recently. He was badly injured but should be alright. Phew. I'm not awesome at condolences of any kind and so instead asked a friend to read him a note from me. I'm too busy hating my personal trainer to think of anything that good for the blog, so instead I'm just gonna publish the letter here. Enjoy-ish.
Dear Andrew,
I feel simply terrible. We encounter situations that, like a hurricane-causing asshole of a butterfly, may complete change the course of ones life. This morning, for example, I was about to leave my house when I thought I’d have one more cup of coffee. I mean, who would even question this? Coffee is delicious, Andrew. You know what isn’t delicious? Nearly wee-ing yourself during the rabbi’s sermon. If someone had just popped their head in the window this morning and said, “Hey, champ. You don’t need it. Now scoot!” well, that woulda been creepy. But they would have been right.
I’m rambling a bit. Just nervous, I guess. You see, I’ve been feeling a lot of guilt ever since Sandra told me about your mob hit accident. Is she reading this to you? Say hi for me. Anyway, we’ve known each other for some years now and at once point spent quite a bit of time sitting around, getting hives from sitting on poor industrial carpeting and talking smack about flute majors. Good times. Terrible outfits. My mind has been wandering to Eating a Lot of Pie at That Shitty Restaurant But It Was Amazing Cause We Were So Tired day. Man, I hope that doesn’t become a government holiday. Long ass name to print on a calendar. As Marcy and I dropped you off at 1:30am, there was something I wanted to say, something that may have changed things, but then Marcy said something. It was probably stupid. Stupid, stupid Marcy. Then you closed the door and I thought, “Ah well, another time then.” That time never came though, did it now? No, it did not.
Do you know what that thing I now so desperately wish I would have said? It was, “You cannot run through a car, Andrew.”
I mean, good on ya for trying. Brave man. I sorely understand the temptation myself. You knock over one tonka truck as a toddler and from there the beast grows. But cars, real cars – big boy cars – well, they’re just solid motherfuckers. Even immune to atomic realignment. I made that up, but I think it would be something like Wonka-vision, but with people instead of chocolate. People, Andrew.
Anyway, I’ll keep my ear to the ground should any new developments pop up, cause to pass directly through a Subaru Outback is clearly your dream. We share that, along with a distant-but-ever-present fascination with Mike Klassen’s ass. It may have its own orbital pull by now. In the meantime, though, no more car molestations. Say it with Sandra: NO MORE CAR MOLESTATIONS. (Did he say it? Sandra? Did he?)
Speedy recovery,
David
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Dear Future Roommate (Part IV)
Part I Part II Part III
Dear Future Roommate,
I just got back from a month-long vaca and have P-lenty of stories of my travelings, but you move in next Wednesday, which is a mere 5 days away, and this event will end the now world famous Dear Future Roommate... series, so I figure I'd better spew forth some final installation before it's too late.
So to that end...
Future Roommate, I am going to break your shit.
I do not mean that I am going to stick logs of your feces in my soon-to-be-bought dehydrator and than go off on it, Kung Fu Panda-style, nor am I invoking my much beloved/maligned Ebonics to signify that I will be beating you. The first would be completely nonsensical and disgusting and the second would be nonsensical and shameful as you could totally take me.
What I mean is that your stuff will most likely get broken at some point. I am, as my beleaguered uncle has termed me, accident prone. He and my aunt have opened their home to me many times this year, both as a favour when I moved here and at their own request when I house sat for them about a half dozen times in the past 12 months. The following is a list of ways I have repaid them:
- Broken wooden spoon, dropped on floor (Innocuous? Not when it was purchased in Holland.)
- Broken whiskey glass, smashed when hit by strainer being banged on the side of the sink (I'm pretty sure the set 0f 4 was, like, 8 bucks but whatever. It didn't win me any friends.)
- Fucked up hot tub, left lid off and all the water evaporated into ice on their deck + bonus cracked wooden plank (Replacement board was $5 and it was installed for free by their neighbour, so the only real damage was to my rep.)
- Deceased microwave, just stopped working (Okay, this one was totally not my fault; I wasn't even using it at the time. Still happened on my watch, though, so another nail in the coffin of my trustworthiness.)
- Bubbled stainless steel pan, overheated when I forgot about the chicken stock I was reducing (This was the worst one, because I forgot to tell them, resulting in my aunt leaving me a voicemail that would intimidate James Gandolfini and then had to enter into an elaborate web of lies about how I thought it had been there before and that I didn't like her tone.)
- Melted plastic bowl, result of air-popping popcorn in the microwave (Kernels at the bottom got so hot that they melted through the bottom of the bowl and (bonus!) onto the tea towel that was covering the bowl, simultaneously burning and dripping melted plastic on it. This also occurred at 11pm and they were home so I got the ire right away.)
This last one happened just last night and it was at this time that my uncle gently suggested that I might want to buy some cheaper versions of their expensive cookware to use when they're gone for the year.
I broke 1; they're getting 12! YOU'RE WELCOME.
Why do I a) have the forehead wrinkles of
an 84 year old and b) have wrist knuckles?
So FutRo, my point is that unless I spend the next 12 months duct-taped in a corner or you put some sort of thumb-print security shield on the kitchen, I'm likely to break something. It will likely not be through carelessness but rather a complete lack of common sense (eg popcorn kernels get hot, plastic melts, etc.) and when this happens, I request a certain amount of patience and understanding. I will replace anything of monetary and promise to stay away from anything of sentimental value, unless that thing is a skillet or utensil of some sort, in which case, what the fuck is wrong with you? In other words, please do not shame me like a puppy that has doodoo'ed (doodid? doodone?) on the rug, as my aunt tends to do. It only makes me feel like crap and get stress headaches which keep me in bed until 11am, at which time I run out of the house and don't come home until midnight so as to avoid see you and your rolled up newspaper.
So in advance, I am sorry and I love you and seriously, thumb-print recognition technology is, like, dirt cheap right now.
Love,
D
Dear Future Roommate,
I just got back from a month-long vaca and have P-lenty of stories of my travelings, but you move in next Wednesday, which is a mere 5 days away, and this event will end the now world famous Dear Future Roommate... series, so I figure I'd better spew forth some final installation before it's too late.
So to that end...
Future Roommate, I am going to break your shit.
I do not mean that I am going to stick logs of your feces in my soon-to-be-bought dehydrator and than go off on it, Kung Fu Panda-style, nor am I invoking my much beloved/maligned Ebonics to signify that I will be beating you. The first would be completely nonsensical and disgusting and the second would be nonsensical and shameful as you could totally take me.
What I mean is that your stuff will most likely get broken at some point. I am, as my beleaguered uncle has termed me, accident prone. He and my aunt have opened their home to me many times this year, both as a favour when I moved here and at their own request when I house sat for them about a half dozen times in the past 12 months. The following is a list of ways I have repaid them:
- Broken wooden spoon, dropped on floor (Innocuous? Not when it was purchased in Holland.)
- Broken whiskey glass, smashed when hit by strainer being banged on the side of the sink (I'm pretty sure the set 0f 4 was, like, 8 bucks but whatever. It didn't win me any friends.)
- Fucked up hot tub, left lid off and all the water evaporated into ice on their deck + bonus cracked wooden plank (Replacement board was $5 and it was installed for free by their neighbour, so the only real damage was to my rep.)
- Deceased microwave, just stopped working (Okay, this one was totally not my fault; I wasn't even using it at the time. Still happened on my watch, though, so another nail in the coffin of my trustworthiness.)
- Bubbled stainless steel pan, overheated when I forgot about the chicken stock I was reducing (This was the worst one, because I forgot to tell them, resulting in my aunt leaving me a voicemail that would intimidate James Gandolfini and then had to enter into an elaborate web of lies about how I thought it had been there before and that I didn't like her tone.)
- Melted plastic bowl, result of air-popping popcorn in the microwave (Kernels at the bottom got so hot that they melted through the bottom of the bowl and (bonus!) onto the tea towel that was covering the bowl, simultaneously burning and dripping melted plastic on it. This also occurred at 11pm and they were home so I got the ire right away.)
This last one happened just last night and it was at this time that my uncle gently suggested that I might want to buy some cheaper versions of their expensive cookware to use when they're gone for the year.
I broke 1; they're getting 12! YOU'RE WELCOME.
Why do I a) have the forehead wrinkles ofan 84 year old and b) have wrist knuckles?
So FutRo, my point is that unless I spend the next 12 months duct-taped in a corner or you put some sort of thumb-print security shield on the kitchen, I'm likely to break something. It will likely not be through carelessness but rather a complete lack of common sense (eg popcorn kernels get hot, plastic melts, etc.) and when this happens, I request a certain amount of patience and understanding. I will replace anything of monetary and promise to stay away from anything of sentimental value, unless that thing is a skillet or utensil of some sort, in which case, what the fuck is wrong with you? In other words, please do not shame me like a puppy that has doodoo'ed (doodid? doodone?) on the rug, as my aunt tends to do. It only makes me feel like crap and get stress headaches which keep me in bed until 11am, at which time I run out of the house and don't come home until midnight so as to avoid see you and your rolled up newspaper.
So in advance, I am sorry and I love you and seriously, thumb-print recognition technology is, like, dirt cheap right now.
Love,
D
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Dear Future Roommate (Part III)
Part I Part II
Dear Future Roommate,
I may switch to vagina.
I'm sorry. That's a bit much to wake up to. But I feel you should really know that your days as best friend to a (debatably) beautiful queer boy may be numbered as I'm thinking of giving up on the unfairer sex and joining Boobie Nation. That's right: I might pull a Cynthia Nixon.
The way I see it, there are only so many times that I want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub with some barely legal Hispanic or clearly-only-cause-I'm-drunk hairy flight attendant. The fact that I seemingly want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub at all is disturbing enough. NO ONE SHOULD EVER HAVE TO SEE THAT. I could never in a million years tape myself having sex. I barely enjoy looking at myself clothed. One time when I was 17, my sexual partner at the time and myself made a short video of us making out fully clothed and I had to leave the room when he watched it. So you see, Future Roommate, I really don't think you should have to deal with that shiz. No girl that I plan on dating would EVER give up her flower in a hot tub, so rest assured you will be spared the sight of not only my naked ass but also whatever she's got going down below as well. I'm not totally clear on the specifics as I skipped that day of health class. Regardless, I certainly don't want you and I finding out together.
You folks are just so much more enticing sometimes. You're all soft and smell like meadows and have those great chest pillows on which I may rest my weary, newly-heterosexual head. You brush and floss regularly, rarely have dirt under your nails and we could share exfoliants! Plus, girls are generally more forgiving of physical foibles and I could really see myself getting used to abeer vodka gut. I know you have as much vested interest in wenis size as the homos, but at least all y'all will keep any disappointment to yourself and then bitch about it to your friends. That's called being a motherfucking lady. Plus, I wouldn't have to shave my bits anymore.
I know this is pretty big news, FutRo (cute term, btw), but you really need to get over it. I mean, take a look at the kind of shit I have to deal with:
Reason I'm Switchin': [on Luminato, an arts festival] what have you seen so far?
Illustrious D: I went to Dark Star, a new oratorio about perceptions/history of HIV/AIDS. Amazing. And then the National Ballet's West Side Story Suite + a couple new works yesterday. I might check out the visual stuff on the way home (Atom Egoyan curated something?) and then Rufus Wainwright on Thursday.
RIS: cool you're all up on the culture!
RIS: i'm looking forward to pride
RIS: it's one of my favorite festivals!
ID: what are you doing for it?
RIS: being gay!
RIS: dressing slutty
RIS: it's the biggest gay party there is!
RIS: u?
ID: I'm volunteering for it. Otherwise, not sure yet.
RIS: really?
RIS: why did you decide to do that?
ID: Believe in the cause, good way to meet people, etc.
RIS: for sure
RIS: i haven't missed toronto pride since i first started coming in 2002
ID: What are your favourite events?
RIS: well this year i am really excited for cyndi lauper
RIS: and that i have a boyfriend that loves pride as much as i do. beer and cyndi's songs all around!
In summation: art blah, pride yay, volunteering why? and beer + cyndi lauper = heaven.
Fuck this shit, Future Roommate. I'm skipping over heterosexuality and going straight for lesbianism. Prepare yourself to spend a lot of time around macrame and women named Deb.
Love,
D
Dear Future Roommate,
I may switch to vagina.
I'm sorry. That's a bit much to wake up to. But I feel you should really know that your days as best friend to a (debatably) beautiful queer boy may be numbered as I'm thinking of giving up on the unfairer sex and joining Boobie Nation. That's right: I might pull a Cynthia Nixon.
The way I see it, there are only so many times that I want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub with some barely legal Hispanic or clearly-only-cause-I'm-drunk hairy flight attendant. The fact that I seemingly want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub at all is disturbing enough. NO ONE SHOULD EVER HAVE TO SEE THAT. I could never in a million years tape myself having sex. I barely enjoy looking at myself clothed. One time when I was 17, my sexual partner at the time and myself made a short video of us making out fully clothed and I had to leave the room when he watched it. So you see, Future Roommate, I really don't think you should have to deal with that shiz. No girl that I plan on dating would EVER give up her flower in a hot tub, so rest assured you will be spared the sight of not only my naked ass but also whatever she's got going down below as well. I'm not totally clear on the specifics as I skipped that day of health class. Regardless, I certainly don't want you and I finding out together.
You folks are just so much more enticing sometimes. You're all soft and smell like meadows and have those great chest pillows on which I may rest my weary, newly-heterosexual head. You brush and floss regularly, rarely have dirt under your nails and we could share exfoliants! Plus, girls are generally more forgiving of physical foibles and I could really see myself getting used to a
I know this is pretty big news, FutRo (cute term, btw), but you really need to get over it. I mean, take a look at the kind of shit I have to deal with:
Reason I'm Switchin': [on Luminato, an arts festival] what have you seen so far?
Illustrious D: I went to Dark Star, a new oratorio about perceptions/history of HIV/AIDS. Amazing. And then the National Ballet's West Side Story Suite + a couple new works yesterday. I might check out the visual stuff on the way home (Atom Egoyan curated something?) and then Rufus Wainwright on Thursday.
RIS: cool you're all up on the culture!
RIS: i'm looking forward to pride
RIS: it's one of my favorite festivals!
ID: what are you doing for it?
RIS: being gay!
RIS: dressing slutty
RIS: it's the biggest gay party there is!
RIS: u?
ID: I'm volunteering for it. Otherwise, not sure yet.
RIS: really?
RIS: why did you decide to do that?
ID: Believe in the cause, good way to meet people, etc.
RIS: for sure
RIS: i haven't missed toronto pride since i first started coming in 2002
ID: What are your favourite events?
RIS: well this year i am really excited for cyndi lauper
RIS: and that i have a boyfriend that loves pride as much as i do. beer and cyndi's songs all around!
In summation: art blah, pride yay, volunteering why? and beer + cyndi lauper = heaven.
Fuck this shit, Future Roommate. I'm skipping over heterosexuality and going straight for lesbianism. Prepare yourself to spend a lot of time around macrame and women named Deb.
Love,
D
Friday, May 14, 2010
What You Get For Being My Friend
The following e-mail exchange just occurred between myself and Matthew, a quasi-long time net friend that is visiting Toronto next week.
Big-Ass Matt (last night): " It's like 2:00 a.m. and I think that I should go to bed or masturbate or something equally as productive. Bake?"
Illustrious D (this morning): "I hope you wound up doing both. Masturbaking. At the very least you'd wind up with a decent bonding agent. Suck on that, eggs. There's a new kid in town: semen."
BAM: "Ew, haha. Masturbaking. There's so many double entendres in that brief paragraph that it made my simple minded head positively explode. Anyway: it's okay if Sunday isn't doable. We will find time, rest assured. If even it's only a few mere moments to point and laugh at each other and then part ways."
ID: "The following is an artistic interpretation of the situation you positted in your last e-mail. I truly hope that it does not come down to this, but in the event that it does, this IS the outcome which will occur:
ID (continued): "First of all, where are your goddamn pants, Matthew?! This is Queen St. W, not Cousin Humpin' Crescent, Saskatoon. Also, nice socks. Way to coordinate with the blue shirt. Douche. And man, your ass really is large and in charge. Not gonna lie though. I got pretty aroused cutting and pasting it into my 2 HOUR MS Paint project.
"So yes, please try to not show up to our point-and-laugh date without pants. If they are to come off, I would at least like to be the one undoing them with his teeth.
"KNOWLEDGE!
"Illustrious out."
Big-Ass Matt (last night): " It's like 2:00 a.m. and I think that I should go to bed or masturbate or something equally as productive. Bake?"
Illustrious D (this morning): "I hope you wound up doing both. Masturbaking. At the very least you'd wind up with a decent bonding agent. Suck on that, eggs. There's a new kid in town: semen."
BAM: "Ew, haha. Masturbaking. There's so many double entendres in that brief paragraph that it made my simple minded head positively explode. Anyway: it's okay if Sunday isn't doable. We will find time, rest assured. If even it's only a few mere moments to point and laugh at each other and then part ways."
ID: "The following is an artistic interpretation of the situation you positted in your last e-mail. I truly hope that it does not come down to this, but in the event that it does, this IS the outcome which will occur:
ID (continued): "First of all, where are your goddamn pants, Matthew?! This is Queen St. W, not Cousin Humpin' Crescent, Saskatoon. Also, nice socks. Way to coordinate with the blue shirt. Douche. And man, your ass really is large and in charge. Not gonna lie though. I got pretty aroused cutting and pasting it into my 2 HOUR MS Paint project.
"So yes, please try to not show up to our point-and-laugh date without pants. If they are to come off, I would at least like to be the one undoing them with his teeth.
"KNOWLEDGE!
"Illustrious out."
Friday, March 19, 2010
Dear Future Roommate (Part II)
Dear Future Roommate,
Next year, you will be eating a lot of unknown crap. Not the food itself; I know I can cook like a muthafuka so you'll enjoy the taste. It's simply that I eat/cook with stuff off the floor. I do not have a 5-second rule. I have a the-floor-at-my-local-convenience-store-is-clean-right? rule. In short, I am disgusting. I always tell myself that I will wash fruit/veggies/my hands but it feels weird and, well, non-Jewy. Yes, the mothers of our tribe are always (nasally) yelling at us, but not about the normal WASPy concerns. Germs, no. Bringing the local wino to Saturday services at synagogue, yes. Being the local wino in Saturday services at synagogue, well yeah, that too, if you're me or Hershel "Dumpster Diver" Dantowitz.
In truth, I blame my oft-stoned Hungarian emigré of a father and his whole wasted-want-not approach to any item that he owns, from televisions down to individual-size boxes of Sun Maid raisin boxes. Instead of being like, "Kids in Africa don't have _______," he was all, "You don't have ______, so enjoy that onion skin before I give it to your brother!" Do you see what I'm coming from, Future Roommate? ONION SKINS.
My relationship to germs is akin to that of Central Park residents to 9/11 conspiracy theories ; we're not getting the whole truth. I am distrustful of many things in this life, including recycling, all versions of CSI and Olive Garden's Neverending Soup, Salad & Breadsticks. I am equivally skeptical of the party line on germs. I look at all the Purell-wielding helicopter parents and their asthmatic allergic-to-air snot progenies and I gotta think that maybe a little dirt is good for the body. I mean, look at me. I used to eat acorns as a kid and I turned out great! Little potentially-degenerative neuropathic immune condition that elicits dozens of gawkers a day and a furious determination not to fall on public transportation...but no allergies! See?! Germs are our friends!!
So if I occasionally 'reuse' a fallen strawberry while preparing your fruit 'n nut platter in the morning, I'm sorry and you're welcome. Kids in Africa don't have fruit 'n nut platters.
Love,
D
Next year, you will be eating a lot of unknown crap. Not the food itself; I know I can cook like a muthafuka so you'll enjoy the taste. It's simply that I eat/cook with stuff off the floor. I do not have a 5-second rule. I have a the-floor-at-my-local-convenience-store-is-clean-right? rule. In short, I am disgusting. I always tell myself that I will wash fruit/veggies/my hands but it feels weird and, well, non-Jewy. Yes, the mothers of our tribe are always (nasally) yelling at us, but not about the normal WASPy concerns. Germs, no. Bringing the local wino to Saturday services at synagogue, yes. Being the local wino in Saturday services at synagogue, well yeah, that too, if you're me or Hershel "Dumpster Diver" Dantowitz.
In truth, I blame my oft-stoned Hungarian emigré of a father and his whole wasted-want-not approach to any item that he owns, from televisions down to individual-size boxes of Sun Maid raisin boxes. Instead of being like, "Kids in Africa don't have _______," he was all, "You don't have ______, so enjoy that onion skin before I give it to your brother!" Do you see what I'm coming from, Future Roommate? ONION SKINS.
My relationship to germs is akin to that of Central Park residents to 9/11 conspiracy theories ; we're not getting the whole truth. I am distrustful of many things in this life, including recycling, all versions of CSI and Olive Garden's Neverending Soup, Salad & Breadsticks. I am equivally skeptical of the party line on germs. I look at all the Purell-wielding helicopter parents and their asthmatic allergic-to-air snot progenies and I gotta think that maybe a little dirt is good for the body. I mean, look at me. I used to eat acorns as a kid and I turned out great! Little potentially-degenerative neuropathic immune condition that elicits dozens of gawkers a day and a furious determination not to fall on public transportation...but no allergies! See?! Germs are our friends!!
So if I occasionally 'reuse' a fallen strawberry while preparing your fruit 'n nut platter in the morning, I'm sorry and you're welcome. Kids in Africa don't have fruit 'n nut platters.
Love,
D
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Childlike Empress...orer
I think I've kinda lost sight of why I blog. It's become evident to me over the last few posts that my Machiavellian desire to become adored by many has shortened my vision as to why I post for the few. To that end, I had an ol' skool Fleekin Floygn emo realization today. This may not be that funny, but hey, I got needs too. Not made of stone, people; just various scraps of other people's souls and vodka.
There is an album that has been on my iPod for about half a year now. I had never listened to this album before today as it is a blues album by a near-albino former classmate of mine and while I wish to support my friends, past or present, my ears have standards. Not high standards, according to my Dance Mix '95 album, but standards nevertheless. Today, though, I was walking in an area of town that I've never visited and, as tends to happen in during these odd moments of feeling self-reliant, I thought, "What the heck?" and had a gander.
Sadly, as predicted, my gander turned out to be a goose (zing!), The album is little more than the bastard love child of Muddy Waters and Dashboard Confessional. One song even starts, "Why do I feel this way?" Playa, if you're really singing the blues, you'd better damn know why. So I was walking along merrily until the last song started with a possibly (probably) fake dialogue between between my former whateverhewas and his bandmate, and suddenly I missed him. No, wait, I didn't miss him. He's a shmuck. I missed her, the best friend of high school and undergrad who shared him with me, as well as most every other event of my life from 16 through 23.
He linked us physically in a way that we never could ourselves for obvious reasons (read: mah wenis) and we continued to talk about him long after he was gone. This perfectly encapsulates our relationship. We would do have the same experiences, often at the same time but never together and then talk about them afterwards. She was the only person that could empathize with a huge part of my development. She was the only friend that knew that a rave wasn't a bunch of stupid kids in rainbow clothing sucking on pacifiers (they're but a small contingent, so let's let it be); the only friend that knew the unparalleled ecstasy brought by its eponymous drug the first time taken, the joy and openness and, strangest of all, health that was gained by this synthesis; the only friend that I would talk openly with about everything without fear of judgment because we both knew she'd done worse. I had other friends at the time but they either weren't aware of what was going on or couldn't really relate. They would listen and try to take it in, but she would engage, because she knew. She knew it all. She understood the path. She was my proof that it had happened, that there were contributing factors to this David, that it wasn't all by chance. Now she's gone (as in estranged, not dead; you're sick), there is no documentation and I can't help but feel anger and grief that there is an entire crucial part of my life now unknown by everyone else.
Maybe it doesn't matter all that much. Perhaps it's nothing more than losing a photo album, or that part in Neverending Story II where Bastian's memories keep getting stolen one by one. I mean, he's happy, right? ...What? He becomes unbelievably unhappy and almost destroys Fantasia? Sonovabitch...
There is an album that has been on my iPod for about half a year now. I had never listened to this album before today as it is a blues album by a near-albino former classmate of mine and while I wish to support my friends, past or present, my ears have standards. Not high standards, according to my Dance Mix '95 album, but standards nevertheless. Today, though, I was walking in an area of town that I've never visited and, as tends to happen in during these odd moments of feeling self-reliant, I thought, "What the heck?" and had a gander.
Sadly, as predicted, my gander turned out to be a goose (zing!), The album is little more than the bastard love child of Muddy Waters and Dashboard Confessional. One song even starts, "Why do I feel this way?" Playa, if you're really singing the blues, you'd better damn know why. So I was walking along merrily until the last song started with a possibly (probably) fake dialogue between between my former whateverhewas and his bandmate, and suddenly I missed him. No, wait, I didn't miss him. He's a shmuck. I missed her, the best friend of high school and undergrad who shared him with me, as well as most every other event of my life from 16 through 23.
He linked us physically in a way that we never could ourselves for obvious reasons (read: mah wenis) and we continued to talk about him long after he was gone. This perfectly encapsulates our relationship. We would do have the same experiences, often at the same time but never together and then talk about them afterwards. She was the only person that could empathize with a huge part of my development. She was the only friend that knew that a rave wasn't a bunch of stupid kids in rainbow clothing sucking on pacifiers (they're but a small contingent, so let's let it be); the only friend that knew the unparalleled ecstasy brought by its eponymous drug the first time taken, the joy and openness and, strangest of all, health that was gained by this synthesis; the only friend that I would talk openly with about everything without fear of judgment because we both knew she'd done worse. I had other friends at the time but they either weren't aware of what was going on or couldn't really relate. They would listen and try to take it in, but she would engage, because she knew. She knew it all. She understood the path. She was my proof that it had happened, that there were contributing factors to this David, that it wasn't all by chance. Now she's gone (as in estranged, not dead; you're sick), there is no documentation and I can't help but feel anger and grief that there is an entire crucial part of my life now unknown by everyone else.
Maybe it doesn't matter all that much. Perhaps it's nothing more than losing a photo album, or that part in Neverending Story II where Bastian's memories keep getting stolen one by one. I mean, he's happy, right? ...What? He becomes unbelievably unhappy and almost destroys Fantasia? Sonovabitch...
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Dear Future Roommate,
This coming Fall, I will begin a year-long house sitting stint with one of mah besties from my hometown who is dragging her sorry soprano ass cross country to live with my sorry might-as-well-be-a-castrato-for-all-anyone-cares ass. This will be the very first time that I live with anyone other than my family. The fact that we will be living in a house other than an apartment will make a huge difference as far as the crampings of our respective styles (or lack thereof; Paisley Ghetto Hoodie, I'm-a lookin' at you), but nevertheless there are some things about me that she should probably learn about before hand and what better way to express these very personal idiosyncrasies than in a very public blog. Thus, I present part one of...
Dear Future Roommate,
DO NOT BE AFRAID OF IT! No one is. This is not something that I wish to happen, having outgrown that stage of my life along with my fascination for Fruity-Os and Starlight Surprise Barbie. I feel I should warn you nevertheless, because despite my frequent shame regarding him, the Peen has a way of appearing out of the blue for no. Reason. Whatsoever. I wish I could tell you (and future lovers) that he is simply too great and magnificent to be sheathed, but tragically, I am Jewish and this is not the case. Unfortunately, God's chosen people were only given superiority above all other nations in the low-hangers that accompany the main attraction. This may explain why we are such a self-martyring people. Also, the Holocaust.
Also, please note that even if I happen to show you mine, I under no circumstances want to see yours. Unless that circumstance involves copious amounts of uppers, Cialis and a bisexual Latino. I love lady bodies, especially the lumps. They're like little pillows of delight that squish me when I am hugged by the womenz. Also, I am fascinated at how the attach underneath. Is there a clear crease or more of a gradual sag? Is the underside white like underneath a watch band? Do you need to lift them up when washing to get at stubborn under-boob lint? These are questions I have, but notice how none of them have to do with vaginas. Not interested. Thought sometimes with alcohol. So given our predicted mutual drinking problem, it will probably come up at some point. Well, this paragraph was a bust...
Anyway, I'm sorry that you need to know all this, but not actually, cause why the hell would I write about it if I didn't want the whole world to know. Clearly, I am an attention seeking blog whore. Still, I will try to guard you from my shame and if nothing else I promise to keep up the manscaping. The fact that I expect the same courtesy grooming from you should be a given.
Love,
D
Love,
D
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
My brown friend (Yeah. I have one. Step off!) and I were half-seriously chatting last night about the notion of seeing others naked. My history with shared nudity is illustrious; often times exploratory, occasionally shame based, but always fascinating. I've always been incredibly self-conscious about donning my own suit de birthday, most prominently in the Pan Am Pool change room between the ages of 4 and 10, which is so silly, cause it's not as though size is important at that age anyway. Unless you're a pedo, in which case, STOP READING MY BLOG. My Hungarian father was and still is very quick to point out that there is no shame such appropriate public nudity. Granted, this is also a 300 lbs. man who has met about a third of my friends in a t-shirt and micro-briefs. Despite his European sensibilities, something must have happened to me as a toddler to royally fuck up any normal perception of body image that may have developed.
Despite my aversion to grown ups seeing me au naturel (Blog goal: use as many euphemisms for nudity as possible), I was always the innocent yet pervy kid playing doctor or truth or dare with other kindergartners. Obviously it was never sexual at that age, nor is it to this day to imagine seeing a friend in the buff. It's still weirdly fascinating though. In high school, I had a couple of friends over and we decided to have a three-person toga party that lasted about an hour before it became a strategically placed pillows party. Nothing sexual happened, but it was indefinably exciting to transform my basement into a naturalist colony for a night.
Perhaps my platonic approach to most nudity is fueled by the the dualistic, all-consuming of celluloid and online willies that abound. On the one hand, the permeating presence of over-the-top beauty has absolutely dulled my physical attractions to the point that I'm barely ever drawn to anyone who is not ridiculously out of my league, while at the same time the remainder of the populous become so desexualized that their nakedness is of no consequence. It's on par with seeing someone shirtless; just another detail I can add to the collage of the way I think of you all in my head. Like, brown friend would probably be like, "Aw, look! There's an anteater poking out of that there bush!...Wait."
Wow, that got deep yo! Well, 'bout as deep as The Immaculate Collection, which I think I'm gonna download so I can vogue out on the plane ride home Thursday night.
Despite my aversion to grown ups seeing me au naturel (Blog goal: use as many euphemisms for nudity as possible), I was always the innocent yet pervy kid playing doctor or truth or dare with other kindergartners. Obviously it was never sexual at that age, nor is it to this day to imagine seeing a friend in the buff. It's still weirdly fascinating though. In high school, I had a couple of friends over and we decided to have a three-person toga party that lasted about an hour before it became a strategically placed pillows party. Nothing sexual happened, but it was indefinably exciting to transform my basement into a naturalist colony for a night.
Okay, so maybe it's time to introduce an Oversharing tag.
Perhaps my platonic approach to most nudity is fueled by the the dualistic, all-consuming of celluloid and online willies that abound. On the one hand, the permeating presence of over-the-top beauty has absolutely dulled my physical attractions to the point that I'm barely ever drawn to anyone who is not ridiculously out of my league, while at the same time the remainder of the populous become so desexualized that their nakedness is of no consequence. It's on par with seeing someone shirtless; just another detail I can add to the collage of the way I think of you all in my head. Like, brown friend would probably be like, "Aw, look! There's an anteater poking out of that there bush!...Wait."
Wow, that got deep yo! Well, 'bout as deep as The Immaculate Collection, which I think I'm gonna download so I can vogue out on the plane ride home Thursday night.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Mature Conversation
(via text)
Uni-Brow: hey david [sic]. Woke up coldy. Trying to beat it down before break ends. Which means I'm flaking out...Again. I guess you can add it to the list. Sorry.
Illustrious D: Flaking out on what?
UB: Potential hang outs... Shit... Did I just create that in my head...
ID: Sure did. Still going on the list though.
UB: Ha! Fuck. You get rid of snore-zilla already?
UB: Spart-i-snore
UB: The hero of the birth of insomnia. Frank-in-snores [sic] return
ID: [Uni-Brown], you're not Barney Stinson and you never will be. But yes, the snore of Babylon is gone. Enjoy your convalescence.
UB: Ya. Mine were all of poor quality. This is true. But I set you up for the gold medal.
ID: Yeah. You were really a key player in that one.
UB: I just wanna be on a team.
ID: Well, [Brow}, there have been numerous attempts to get you over to my team but you will have none of it. So I don't know what to tell you. But good luck with everything.
UB: Ha. Check mate my friend. Once again you prove you are in a league of your own.
ID: What a lovely way of saying Single With Good Reason. BTdubs, this entire conversation is going on my blog.
Uni-Brow: hey david [sic]. Woke up coldy. Trying to beat it down before break ends. Which means I'm flaking out...Again. I guess you can add it to the list. Sorry.
Illustrious D: Flaking out on what?
UB: Potential hang outs... Shit... Did I just create that in my head...
ID: Sure did. Still going on the list though.
UB: Ha! Fuck. You get rid of snore-zilla already?
UB: Spart-i-snore
UB: The hero of the birth of insomnia. Frank-in-snores [sic] return
ID: [Uni-Brown], you're not Barney Stinson and you never will be. But yes, the snore of Babylon is gone. Enjoy your convalescence.
UB: Ya. Mine were all of poor quality. This is true. But I set you up for the gold medal.
ID: Yeah. You were really a key player in that one.
UB: I just wanna be on a team.
ID: Well, [Brow}, there have been numerous attempts to get you over to my team but you will have none of it. So I don't know what to tell you. But good luck with everything.
UB: Ha. Check mate my friend. Once again you prove you are in a league of your own.
ID: What a lovely way of saying Single With Good Reason. BTdubs, this entire conversation is going on my blog.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Mommy: How did you sleep?
Illustrious D: Most excellently. Cold room, warm comforters.
M: Oh, good. I put an extra blanket on just in case.
ID: There was an extra one?
M: Yes, the coloured blanket.
ID: Uh, mom? They're called African-American blankets now.
I went home for the weekend to rehearse with a group I perform with/at. This was a surprise for my parents, and my mother, upon opening the door to find me standing there, emitted a sound pitched so high that our dog Finnigan immediately went into heat. The weekend was spent mostly in rehearsals, with the odd tipping of the hat and the bottle to old friends. As no medications, prescriptions or otherwise, seem to be on the horizon, I've rededicated myself to alcoholism. Fortunately, I tend to have friends that share this passion, though none quite at my level, thereby allowing me to feel enabled and superior at the same time. I'm not beating an addiction; I'm winning at it.
While home, I was also propositioned by an old one-sided lover who got me all worked up and then requested that we postpone until the next day. Here is the thing about trying to get with someone who tries hard to be virtuous but is fundamentally weak: we will give in only in the moment. Any attempts at sexual procrastination will be rebuffed. This is not community college; you cannot defer entrance. (That joke would work so much better if I was a bottom.) If you get us all jonesin' and then back off, we're not going to wait until the next night because by then we'll have regained our moral compass or at least what's left of it. Rather we will sit at home all blue balled until some random messages us for a 'cuddle' (read: chew on a nipple*) and then totally go cause I was bored and it was Valentine's Day and I'm unlovable! Or something. Ugh, I don't even have the energy to reprimand myself for being occasionally ho-ey.
* I also learned that under NO circumstances do I enjoy being the little spoon.
Illustrious D: Most excellently. Cold room, warm comforters.
M: Oh, good. I put an extra blanket on just in case.
ID: There was an extra one?
M: Yes, the coloured blanket.
ID: Uh, mom? They're called African-American blankets now.
I went home for the weekend to rehearse with a group I perform with/at. This was a surprise for my parents, and my mother, upon opening the door to find me standing there, emitted a sound pitched so high that our dog Finnigan immediately went into heat. The weekend was spent mostly in rehearsals, with the odd tipping of the hat and the bottle to old friends. As no medications, prescriptions or otherwise, seem to be on the horizon, I've rededicated myself to alcoholism. Fortunately, I tend to have friends that share this passion, though none quite at my level, thereby allowing me to feel enabled and superior at the same time. I'm not beating an addiction; I'm winning at it.
While home, I was also propositioned by an old one-sided lover who got me all worked up and then requested that we postpone until the next day. Here is the thing about trying to get with someone who tries hard to be virtuous but is fundamentally weak: we will give in only in the moment. Any attempts at sexual procrastination will be rebuffed. This is not community college; you cannot defer entrance. (That joke would work so much better if I was a bottom.) If you get us all jonesin' and then back off, we're not going to wait until the next night because by then we'll have regained our moral compass or at least what's left of it. Rather we will sit at home all blue balled until some random messages us for a 'cuddle' (read: chew on a nipple*) and then totally go cause I was bored and it was Valentine's Day and I'm unlovable! Or something. Ugh, I don't even have the energy to reprimand myself for being occasionally ho-ey.
* I also learned that under NO circumstances do I enjoy being the little spoon.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Adventures in Winnipeg
Being home has been lovely. A time for friends, family and constipation. For the first five days of my vaca here I expelled waste exactly twice. That...is a lot of blockage.
Last Sunday was an extended family dinner which quickly devolved into a debaucherous booze fest once the Mennonite card games were brought out. My cousin was mixing me martinis all night and by the time the grownups left around 10:30 I was well in the bag. By midnight, I had compiled a list entitled, "Things that would make me put a ring on it" and thrown up all over the kitchen table mid-laugh. Vermouth in the nose...not fun. Much else is a blur until my brothers got me home at which point I began emptying the contents of my stomach into the main floor bathroom. A firm believer in equity, I then crawled up the stairs and ralphed in the upstairs loo. After throwing up a solid quart of vodka, my body had nothing left to give and began heaving in all sorts of directions. It was at this moment that my bowels graciously decided to relieve me of the previous two days' build up. I will spare you, my reader(s?) the delicate details of this evacuation but it ends with me calling my 19 year old brother into the bathroom and demanding that he "draw a bath." I managed to crawl to the tub and after properly washing away the vomit and shame, I then required his help to lift me out of the bath (while I one-handedly concealed my junk; boy's gotta have some modesty) and he escorted me to bed. He then, at my request, brought me water and a pail, cleaned up the bathroom and did my laundry. He was truly a champ. Well, runner-up champ. The true champ was me who, having completely expelled all the alcohol from his body, woke up hang-over free the next day.
I am a magical being.
New Year's was fine yet sorta lame. It would have been far worse had I not had zero expectations. I went to a house party (Q: does it count as a party if the only organizational element is a table on which to place the booze?) and I was the first one to arrive. Well, not the first exactly, but the first of my ilk. Ya see, our host for the evening is a lovely boy from a small town with a fetish on for opera and separate friendship groups to match this dichotomy. By the time I got there, the small town contingent, which I will delicately label "urbanely-challenged," were already a dozen strong and in various states of world hockey juniors frenzy and inebriation. Fortunately, I was shortly joined by Mikey J and we awkwardly sat on a couch as the women whispered drunkenly (read: talked) in one corner while the men ("men"?) set up an elaborate game involving two bar stools roughly three meters apart, two empty beer cups and a Frisbee. Guess what the goal was. Take your time.
Eventually, my music peeps showed up and we segregated ourselves upstairs, modestly drinking and playing Apples to Apples. This was fine, but it just kind of felt like any old Thursday night. Even midnight was kinda lame as no one could find a television channel in our time zone with a countdown. Someone just kinda started mumbling, "10...9..." and then we all blew our noise makers with all the gusto of a pre-Viagra octogenarian. I had also decided to participate in the Great Decongestant Experiment, Part 2 and had downed three of those puppies. Unfortunately, they just kinda made me restless and caustic, which occasionally drew laughs, but generally I suspect that I was just a big bitch. I'm still down for a third and final attempt in some sort of club setting, but should that prove unremarkable, it's strictly back to street narcotics. That's a promise.
In other news, I made the mistake of telling the little Portuguese that I tend to only be interested in guys that don't reciprocate my feelings so he shouldn't act overly interested. He responded by acting no less available but rather has taken to frequently calling me 'cockweed'. This one may be a keeper.
Last Sunday was an extended family dinner which quickly devolved into a debaucherous booze fest once the Mennonite card games were brought out. My cousin was mixing me martinis all night and by the time the grownups left around 10:30 I was well in the bag. By midnight, I had compiled a list entitled, "Things that would make me put a ring on it" and thrown up all over the kitchen table mid-laugh. Vermouth in the nose...not fun. Much else is a blur until my brothers got me home at which point I began emptying the contents of my stomach into the main floor bathroom. A firm believer in equity, I then crawled up the stairs and ralphed in the upstairs loo. After throwing up a solid quart of vodka, my body had nothing left to give and began heaving in all sorts of directions. It was at this moment that my bowels graciously decided to relieve me of the previous two days' build up. I will spare you, my reader(s?) the delicate details of this evacuation but it ends with me calling my 19 year old brother into the bathroom and demanding that he "draw a bath." I managed to crawl to the tub and after properly washing away the vomit and shame, I then required his help to lift me out of the bath (while I one-handedly concealed my junk; boy's gotta have some modesty) and he escorted me to bed. He then, at my request, brought me water and a pail, cleaned up the bathroom and did my laundry. He was truly a champ. Well, runner-up champ. The true champ was me who, having completely expelled all the alcohol from his body, woke up hang-over free the next day.
I am a magical being.
New Year's was fine yet sorta lame. It would have been far worse had I not had zero expectations. I went to a house party (Q: does it count as a party if the only organizational element is a table on which to place the booze?) and I was the first one to arrive. Well, not the first exactly, but the first of my ilk. Ya see, our host for the evening is a lovely boy from a small town with a fetish on for opera and separate friendship groups to match this dichotomy. By the time I got there, the small town contingent, which I will delicately label "urbanely-challenged," were already a dozen strong and in various states of world hockey juniors frenzy and inebriation. Fortunately, I was shortly joined by Mikey J and we awkwardly sat on a couch as the women whispered drunkenly (read: talked) in one corner while the men ("men"?) set up an elaborate game involving two bar stools roughly three meters apart, two empty beer cups and a Frisbee. Guess what the goal was. Take your time.
Eventually, my music peeps showed up and we segregated ourselves upstairs, modestly drinking and playing Apples to Apples. This was fine, but it just kind of felt like any old Thursday night. Even midnight was kinda lame as no one could find a television channel in our time zone with a countdown. Someone just kinda started mumbling, "10...9..." and then we all blew our noise makers with all the gusto of a pre-Viagra octogenarian. I had also decided to participate in the Great Decongestant Experiment, Part 2 and had downed three of those puppies. Unfortunately, they just kinda made me restless and caustic, which occasionally drew laughs, but generally I suspect that I was just a big bitch. I'm still down for a third and final attempt in some sort of club setting, but should that prove unremarkable, it's strictly back to street narcotics. That's a promise.
In other news, I made the mistake of telling the little Portuguese that I tend to only be interested in guys that don't reciprocate my feelings so he shouldn't act overly interested. He responded by acting no less available but rather has taken to frequently calling me 'cockweed'. This one may be a keeper.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Great weekend with the out-of town-friend. I feel that any bi leanings he may have had in the past have definitely fallen to the wayside, though not for a lack of open-mindedness. This is the guy who, in high school, confessed that he felt he was bi because the idea of kissing another boy didn't totally gross him out. I'd councelled him that there were some additional body parts he would need to consider before rendering a verdict, but had appreciated his candour nevertheless. He stayed in his bed, me in mine and ne'er did a mattress we share except for when watching Glee reruns on my laptop. The running joke for the weekend was the fact that I sleep next to a body pillow roughly the size of an eight year old. A very bloated eight year old. We named him Paco.
Highlights from the weekend included seeing (for free!) the premiere of Philip Glass's (that's right: 's) new violin concerto, an hommage to The Four Seasons (Vivaldi, not Motown) and was played by the most God-gifted violinist I have ever heard. (I really need to learn how to better formulate sentences or cut back on my use of parantheses.) We also went to this queer hipster party night (growing trend? Hopefully.) that predominantly featured old school hip hop. Thanks to 3 double vodka sodas, I have never been blacker in my life. I'm not sure if it was the fact that this was the most Caucasian place I've ever been in the multicultural bastion that is Toronto and being the lone Jew boy made me the most ghetto person there or simply the fact that I've really been enjoying Russell on So You Think You Can Dance. Regardless, I got crunk and may have attempted crumping, 'specially during the random mid-set playing of All That She Wants.
I haven't seen ESLothario in nearly two weeks. I do not know how I feel about this. While it likely aids my mental sanity, this distance, due largely to conflicting schedules and winter illnesses, is definitely causing a drift. My initial plan two months ago was to become ubiquitous in his life, which worked for a bit but was ultimately painful during those unintentional reminders that I am not at the forefront of his thoughts, causing me to pull away. Apart from one friend who offered to fetch him, grab his tongue and stick it down my throat, the general opinion from others is that he sounds like a bit of a tool and yet I still can't let it go, likely because I feel I still don't get him. If I understand someone, their way of thinking/living, and I feel shot down, then I'm perfectly capable of getting my irrationial resentment on and moving forward. However, he's so hot and cold, in my head at least; I'd almost prefer just to get shot down than attempt this any longer.
I'm housesitting my aunt and uncle for the next ten days. Evidently, my packing list did not include "Any Other Pants Than The Jeans You Have On" and so today I went to work wearing my uncle's size 38 pleated wool trousers. The only enchanted place that could be visited via his wardrobe is the Land of Salvation Army. They are so large that the crotch is almost at my knees, which would be tragic if not for the recent fashion reemergence of harem pants. Evidently, I can touch this.
Anyway, these relatives live quite a ways from downtown, not the suburbs but still enough to add some new isolation onto the heap. The up side? They have a hot tub, mafakas! It is perfectly built for two and by "two" I mean "two people who are fucking" as it would be very difficult to sit in without multiple extremities touching/converging. If this hot tub fails to get me some before my time there is over, I am becoming a lesbian.
Happy Hanukkah.
Highlights from the weekend included seeing (for free!) the premiere of Philip Glass's (that's right: 's) new violin concerto, an hommage to The Four Seasons (Vivaldi, not Motown) and was played by the most God-gifted violinist I have ever heard. (I really need to learn how to better formulate sentences or cut back on my use of parantheses.) We also went to this queer hipster party night (growing trend? Hopefully.) that predominantly featured old school hip hop. Thanks to 3 double vodka sodas, I have never been blacker in my life. I'm not sure if it was the fact that this was the most Caucasian place I've ever been in the multicultural bastion that is Toronto and being the lone Jew boy made me the most ghetto person there or simply the fact that I've really been enjoying Russell on So You Think You Can Dance. Regardless, I got crunk and may have attempted crumping, 'specially during the random mid-set playing of All That She Wants.
I haven't seen ESLothario in nearly two weeks. I do not know how I feel about this. While it likely aids my mental sanity, this distance, due largely to conflicting schedules and winter illnesses, is definitely causing a drift. My initial plan two months ago was to become ubiquitous in his life, which worked for a bit but was ultimately painful during those unintentional reminders that I am not at the forefront of his thoughts, causing me to pull away. Apart from one friend who offered to fetch him, grab his tongue and stick it down my throat, the general opinion from others is that he sounds like a bit of a tool and yet I still can't let it go, likely because I feel I still don't get him. If I understand someone, their way of thinking/living, and I feel shot down, then I'm perfectly capable of getting my irrationial resentment on and moving forward. However, he's so hot and cold, in my head at least; I'd almost prefer just to get shot down than attempt this any longer.
I'm housesitting my aunt and uncle for the next ten days. Evidently, my packing list did not include "Any Other Pants Than The Jeans You Have On" and so today I went to work wearing my uncle's size 38 pleated wool trousers. The only enchanted place that could be visited via his wardrobe is the Land of Salvation Army. They are so large that the crotch is almost at my knees, which would be tragic if not for the recent fashion reemergence of harem pants. Evidently, I can touch this.
Anyway, these relatives live quite a ways from downtown, not the suburbs but still enough to add some new isolation onto the heap. The up side? They have a hot tub, mafakas! It is perfectly built for two and by "two" I mean "two people who are fucking" as it would be very difficult to sit in without multiple extremities touching/converging. If this hot tub fails to get me some before my time there is over, I am becoming a lesbian.
Happy Hanukkah.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
This morning whilst waiting for the streetcar, I observed a woman labouriously gimping down the street, bravely trudging through the newly fallen slush of Queen St. W. In solidarity, I gently lefted the corners of my mouth as she strolled by, a smile that would unite us in our differently abledness. She responded by lifting a different body part and flipped me off.
You stay classy, disabled people.
I got on the streetcar and sat adjascent to a very good looking South Asian fellow, standing right by me and texting on his blackberry, and ate my orange, placing the peel in my bag as to not besmirch the saliva/urine laden floor of a TTC vehicle. Feeling his eyes upon me, I indignantly responded in my thoughts that the peel would serve as a positive olaftory force, its addition lending some much needed citrus top notes to my Kenneth Cole satchel . I thought about telling this to my friends, but remembering that they are all opera singers, I realized that they would look at me as though I was a mongoloid and mutter something about incorrect warm up techniques.
I met a couple new ones last night (opera singers, not mongoloids). The girl had dyed red hair, drank like a fish and swore like a sailor. I like her a lot. The boy had natural red hair (auburn, not gingey), made some successful quips and brought up his love of stubble burn on various body parts throughout the evening. And I liked him. A lot. They both laughed at my some of my humour, though the girl harder, so she is my favourite, despite the fact that the boy is sort of one of the most beautiful things I've seen. Fist-bump for fleeting moments of non-superficiality. I realized that laughing at something I said makes me want to have you for a sleepover. Girls, on my futon; boys, on my me.
Speaking of boys who want on my bed, there's been a recent surge of Manhunt messages from guys that are a) my age or younger b) above average looking and c) wanna get with this, frequently unlocking their (Act impressed) private photos. Granted many want me to show up at their hotel rooms (flight attendants) or drive to the suburbs (Coffee Time employees), but it's still an honour just to be nominated. I feel this ushers in a new era of my demographic appeal: guys seeking the big brother type. A bit creepy for you straights? Probably, but realize that this is just as common in hetero relationships. Think of all the girls dating 4-8 years above their age. It's about protectorship and flattery, sometimes in that order. Oh and in this case the want of my sex. And following up to the last post, as witnessed by these private photos, turns out that some white guys really are doing their bit to bring down the size average. And they're flight attendants. And Coffee Time employees. Niche market, I welcome thee.
You stay classy, disabled people.
I got on the streetcar and sat adjascent to a very good looking South Asian fellow, standing right by me and texting on his blackberry, and ate my orange, placing the peel in my bag as to not besmirch the saliva/urine laden floor of a TTC vehicle. Feeling his eyes upon me, I indignantly responded in my thoughts that the peel would serve as a positive olaftory force, its addition lending some much needed citrus top notes to my Kenneth Cole satchel . I thought about telling this to my friends, but remembering that they are all opera singers, I realized that they would look at me as though I was a mongoloid and mutter something about incorrect warm up techniques.
I met a couple new ones last night (opera singers, not mongoloids). The girl had dyed red hair, drank like a fish and swore like a sailor. I like her a lot. The boy had natural red hair (auburn, not gingey), made some successful quips and brought up his love of stubble burn on various body parts throughout the evening. And I liked him. A lot. They both laughed at my some of my humour, though the girl harder, so she is my favourite, despite the fact that the boy is sort of one of the most beautiful things I've seen. Fist-bump for fleeting moments of non-superficiality. I realized that laughing at something I said makes me want to have you for a sleepover. Girls, on my futon; boys, on my me.
Speaking of boys who want on my bed, there's been a recent surge of Manhunt messages from guys that are a) my age or younger b) above average looking and c) wanna get with this, frequently unlocking their (Act impressed) private photos. Granted many want me to show up at their hotel rooms (flight attendants) or drive to the suburbs (Coffee Time employees), but it's still an honour just to be nominated. I feel this ushers in a new era of my demographic appeal: guys seeking the big brother type. A bit creepy for you straights? Probably, but realize that this is just as common in hetero relationships. Think of all the girls dating 4-8 years above their age. It's about protectorship and flattery, sometimes in that order. Oh and in this case the want of my sex. And following up to the last post, as witnessed by these private photos, turns out that some white guys really are doing their bit to bring down the size average. And they're flight attendants. And Coffee Time employees. Niche market, I welcome thee.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Manhunt is giving me an eating disorder. Am I first? No. Am I the first that is me? Absolutely. It was bad enough in Winnipeg but now that I'm in the land that carbs forgot, I don't have a shot. Well, unless it's a shot to the face from some 46 year old amateur massage therapist/photographer. I don't even message people any more for fear of the right-out-of-the-gate concessions they'll be making in responding to someone with a waist size of more than 31 (It's 32.5. I should be shot). Also, to all of you 8+ guys, some of you are lying. Seriously. It can't just be that the Asians bring down the average that much. They would require President's Choice Savoury Cocktail Sausage Rolls-sized junk to come close to that making mathematical sense. And is not Manhunt, above all other things, about making mathematical sense?
Hanging out with the gay Jews on Friday was kinda fun. My contact guy, ie the only one that I knew somewhat, was very nice, babysitting me the whole night. I find him strangely attractive. Not in a I-want-to-bang-that-like-metal-siding kinda way, but more that he was very charismatic. I was surprised by how the more he talked the much more pleasant he became to look at. That's probably just what as known as 'having a good personality', but clearly that is something I encounter so infrequently that it was a real treat. I am, at this point, of course, beyond tired of meeting new people, but these guys were pretty sweet from what I gathered. Some of them were not half-bad looking either, although even the ones that looked like Jewish Moby extemporized on their gym regimens at one point or another. Maybe I'll just stop eating altogether, existing on coffee and fear that no man will ever love me. After drinks at someone's townhouse (I hate my apartment), we went to this 'party', which is a word Torontonians use for any sort of rented-space event, as opposed to the Winnipeg definition of 'a rave'. This was almost an anti-village party, with very few muscle boys or Hollister douches. These were American Apparel douches. Well, maybe AA meets Value Village douches. But minus the douches, as most of the people there seemed pretty cool, including my chaperone who disclosed that he had been "really into black guys for, like, 6 weeks last summer and hooked up with one of them pretty much every week." (Well, suck on that neo-Nazis and KKK members of the world.) There was one couple (not in our group) who were really creepy, a bisexual male and female couple who go to these parties to pick up young gay things for a night of pleasure with them. This sparked a debate about whether bisexuality was a viable option. One fellow in our group, upon asserting that he felt it is simply a form of closeting, remarked of his own closed-mindedness, "If I was straight, I would totally be homophobic." The bi couple was also strangely paired. He kinda looked like a craggy Christian Bale. She kinda looked like a transexual. Incidentally, and I'm sure completely unrelated, it was around this time that my stomach, which had experienced irregular amounts of meat and completely regular amounts of alcohol, decided that I'd made a foolish decision and would be required to leave as soon as possible. I cabbed home, spent the entire night fitfully tossing, skipped Temple the next morning (buh-bye $85) and did nothing yesterday except eat pasta, sit on my bed and talk to losers on Manhunt.
Really glad I'm honing those full-circle skills for this blog.
Hanging out with the gay Jews on Friday was kinda fun. My contact guy, ie the only one that I knew somewhat, was very nice, babysitting me the whole night. I find him strangely attractive. Not in a I-want-to-bang-that-like-metal-siding kinda way, but more that he was very charismatic. I was surprised by how the more he talked the much more pleasant he became to look at. That's probably just what as known as 'having a good personality', but clearly that is something I encounter so infrequently that it was a real treat. I am, at this point, of course, beyond tired of meeting new people, but these guys were pretty sweet from what I gathered. Some of them were not half-bad looking either, although even the ones that looked like Jewish Moby extemporized on their gym regimens at one point or another. Maybe I'll just stop eating altogether, existing on coffee and fear that no man will ever love me. After drinks at someone's townhouse (I hate my apartment), we went to this 'party', which is a word Torontonians use for any sort of rented-space event, as opposed to the Winnipeg definition of 'a rave'. This was almost an anti-village party, with very few muscle boys or Hollister douches. These were American Apparel douches. Well, maybe AA meets Value Village douches. But minus the douches, as most of the people there seemed pretty cool, including my chaperone who disclosed that he had been "really into black guys for, like, 6 weeks last summer and hooked up with one of them pretty much every week." (Well, suck on that neo-Nazis and KKK members of the world.) There was one couple (not in our group) who were really creepy, a bisexual male and female couple who go to these parties to pick up young gay things for a night of pleasure with them. This sparked a debate about whether bisexuality was a viable option. One fellow in our group, upon asserting that he felt it is simply a form of closeting, remarked of his own closed-mindedness, "If I was straight, I would totally be homophobic." The bi couple was also strangely paired. He kinda looked like a craggy Christian Bale. She kinda looked like a transexual. Incidentally, and I'm sure completely unrelated, it was around this time that my stomach, which had experienced irregular amounts of meat and completely regular amounts of alcohol, decided that I'd made a foolish decision and would be required to leave as soon as possible. I cabbed home, spent the entire night fitfully tossing, skipped Temple the next morning (buh-bye $85) and did nothing yesterday except eat pasta, sit on my bed and talk to losers on Manhunt.
Really glad I'm honing those full-circle skills for this blog.
Friday, December 04, 2009
Another day spent trolling the gay blogosphere. I’ve made the unfortunate discovery that not all bloggers are witty, acerbic and immaculately coifed as some earlier finds. Some feel that their annual pilgrimage to IKEA is appropriately tantalizing sharing fodder. I might consider discussing such an insipid venture if it involved adventures in narcotics, group sex or sandwiches. But otherwise, no.
I had a strangely ambiguous conversation with Never-Gonna-Happen Current Obsession, whom I’m decided to rename ESLothario. We discussed my recent pulling away, not unnoticed it seems, as well as the weird, twisty journeys on which we’ve both imparted. We also discussed the notion of taking chances and being risky. I came very close to stating that he was my risk and that my weird, twisty journey would be over if he just gave me a sign that me lunging across the table to kiss him would be met with reciprocity rather than a harassment suit, but I refrained, as always. He has to know anyway, given his claims of extrasensory perception and the fact that I’m an absolute idiot around him. Seriously. Should it ever occur, our first date will be chaperoned via short bus. I suspect this will come to a head soon enough, most likely with me leaving a post-it note with his doorman detailing my Quixotic ambitions for him, myself being one of them, and then following this up by my fleeing of the country. I hear Mozambique is lovely this time of year.
I’m supposed to meet up tonight with a big ol’ group of gay Jews. This is, for me, like wandering the desert and finding an oasis. A neurotic, large-nosed, circumcised oasis. I do not know any of these guys, having been connected to one of them via an old camp counsellor’s Facebook friend suggestion, but I’m cautiously optimistic. Who knew that my former counsellor, now a bald lawyer, would be responsible for a potential new (read: only) gay social group? Perhaps there will even be love under the yarmulke.
I just looked in the mirror and I think my head’s height is roughly two times that of its width. I am the male Sarah Jessica Parker.
I had a strangely ambiguous conversation with Never-Gonna-Happen Current Obsession, whom I’m decided to rename ESLothario. We discussed my recent pulling away, not unnoticed it seems, as well as the weird, twisty journeys on which we’ve both imparted. We also discussed the notion of taking chances and being risky. I came very close to stating that he was my risk and that my weird, twisty journey would be over if he just gave me a sign that me lunging across the table to kiss him would be met with reciprocity rather than a harassment suit, but I refrained, as always. He has to know anyway, given his claims of extrasensory perception and the fact that I’m an absolute idiot around him. Seriously. Should it ever occur, our first date will be chaperoned via short bus. I suspect this will come to a head soon enough, most likely with me leaving a post-it note with his doorman detailing my Quixotic ambitions for him, myself being one of them, and then following this up by my fleeing of the country. I hear Mozambique is lovely this time of year.
I’m supposed to meet up tonight with a big ol’ group of gay Jews. This is, for me, like wandering the desert and finding an oasis. A neurotic, large-nosed, circumcised oasis. I do not know any of these guys, having been connected to one of them via an old camp counsellor’s Facebook friend suggestion, but I’m cautiously optimistic. Who knew that my former counsellor, now a bald lawyer, would be responsible for a potential new (read: only) gay social group? Perhaps there will even be love under the yarmulke.
I just looked in the mirror and I think my head’s height is roughly two times that of its width. I am the male Sarah Jessica Parker.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
I have decided to procure more people to have at my beck and call - 'friends', if you will - and have decided to examine how this may be realized.
Now, do you remember those old Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints commercials, wherein they would show a short vignette with a moralistic ending framing a specific virtue, like an episode of Full House in 30 seconds? You do?! Great. Then you'll remember that in one such scene there were three little girls having a tea party that revolved around these amazing looking cupcakes. Then a fourth little girl, very shy, slightly Rainman, is ushered into the room at which point the original Supremes start protectively eyeing their cupcakes. After 5 seconds riddled with unparalleled social tension, the mini-hostess, let's call her Li'l Debbie, reaches over, picks up a knife (way to rock child safety principles, Mormons) and cuts one quarter from each treat, allowing each little girl to have 3/4 of a cupcake, upon which all the girls break out into gap-toothed grins and giggles. Why? I have no idea. This isn't funny. Girls are stupid. Regardless, it's a lesson on friendship.
Ok, that right there is the opposite of what I'm going to do. Cause let me tell you kids, I've been asked to participate in a couple of group sharing sessions in my time and they did NOT work out well for me. Granted the spreading around of my muffin was in those cases extremely metaphorical and quite the opposite of what the Mormons go for (chastityundergarmentssaywhat?). Still, other avenues, I feel, need to be explored.
I have considered posting a personals ad on craigslist. Not for any illicit or even romantic purpose, but rather one that is slightly off the beaten track: lunch buddy. You see, during my daily lunch breaks in the downstairs there are any number of people sitting alone, people that work in the two adjoining 22-story buildings and some of them even look interesting (read: under 30, no khakis). Given that I alternate lunch times with the only person in my office within a decade of retirement, I thought I'd put out an APB for a stranger with whom to shoot the proverbial shihat. I imagine, were I to get any responses, that some of these meetings would be unmitigated disasters. Hilarious, hilarious disasters. They may, however, break up the monotony of a day spent far too frequently looking up sitcom lines on Wikiquote. Plus it would beat the creepiness of just staring at random people, an act I've recently termed eye-rape. It's like eye-fucking but without any consensual reciprocity.
Other than that, I don't really know, so I shall open up the forum to anyone who has met a friend in a strange and (preferably) lawful situation. Given that my last open forum regarding toilet paper illicited one response (what up, Bender? Mad props), let's put on those socially inappropriate thinking caps and find me some peeps.
Now, do you remember those old Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints commercials, wherein they would show a short vignette with a moralistic ending framing a specific virtue, like an episode of Full House in 30 seconds? You do?! Great. Then you'll remember that in one such scene there were three little girls having a tea party that revolved around these amazing looking cupcakes. Then a fourth little girl, very shy, slightly Rainman, is ushered into the room at which point the original Supremes start protectively eyeing their cupcakes. After 5 seconds riddled with unparalleled social tension, the mini-hostess, let's call her Li'l Debbie, reaches over, picks up a knife (way to rock child safety principles, Mormons) and cuts one quarter from each treat, allowing each little girl to have 3/4 of a cupcake, upon which all the girls break out into gap-toothed grins and giggles. Why? I have no idea. This isn't funny. Girls are stupid. Regardless, it's a lesson on friendship.
Ok, that right there is the opposite of what I'm going to do. Cause let me tell you kids, I've been asked to participate in a couple of group sharing sessions in my time and they did NOT work out well for me. Granted the spreading around of my muffin was in those cases extremely metaphorical and quite the opposite of what the Mormons go for (chastityundergarmentssaywhat?). Still, other avenues, I feel, need to be explored.
I have considered posting a personals ad on craigslist. Not for any illicit or even romantic purpose, but rather one that is slightly off the beaten track: lunch buddy. You see, during my daily lunch breaks in the downstairs there are any number of people sitting alone, people that work in the two adjoining 22-story buildings and some of them even look interesting (read: under 30, no khakis). Given that I alternate lunch times with the only person in my office within a decade of retirement, I thought I'd put out an APB for a stranger with whom to shoot the proverbial shihat. I imagine, were I to get any responses, that some of these meetings would be unmitigated disasters. Hilarious, hilarious disasters. They may, however, break up the monotony of a day spent far too frequently looking up sitcom lines on Wikiquote. Plus it would beat the creepiness of just staring at random people, an act I've recently termed eye-rape. It's like eye-fucking but without any consensual reciprocity.
Other than that, I don't really know, so I shall open up the forum to anyone who has met a friend in a strange and (preferably) lawful situation. Given that my last open forum regarding toilet paper illicited one response (what up, Bender? Mad props), let's put on those socially inappropriate thinking caps and find me some peeps.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Well, it's my day off (and a certain arse's birthday) so how am I spending it? Why, by making a lot of food and watching daytime television!
The food was croque monsieurs, a traditional French dish that is essentially a cross between a sandwich and French toast that is baked with cheese. Awesomeness was enjoyed by all.
As for the daytime tele, I just watched my first full episode of So You Think You Can Dance, an elimation episode at that and I will fully admit to all the world that by the end of it, I was openly weeping. I am reeeeeally not a reality show guy and a big part of that is the ego present on these shows, but these kids seemed so nice! First of all, no one on that show is conventionally beautiful. Would guy looks like the offspring of a tin soldier and a meerkat, ergo I would totally hit it. (In searching for that link, I went on the show's website and discovered that the competition is, in fact, already over. Meh. Fuck it; the tears are real.) Also, they just all seemed so overwhelmed to be there, like in the back of their minds they didn't really think they were deserving (musicalschoolsaywhat?). And then when the gorgeous little black girl and the ambiguously-sexualized white boy (Methodist) were sent packing, the tears! Oh the tears, how they came! And when the credits rolled and the funky music that signals the cast to start peacocking around the stage began, they instead rushed to the eliminated two and started crying too! And THEN when each of their dance partners got to them and they looked at each other and did the whole It-hurts-so-much-I-have-to-close-my-eyes hug...well, Vamos lost his shit.
That crew (can I say crew? NCAA ruling?) completely reminded me of my music school peeps in the first 2-3 years of our degree. Instead of being all backstabby and bitchy, the girls practically got on the same cycle. Instead of being all macho and standoffish the guys...well, we ate a lot of pie together. (I mean, it's not like we were out getting bro massages together *cough*Class of '10*cough*) Can you imagine if one of us was kicked off at the end of each semester? If at juries, instead of singing for marks, we were "singing for our lives!"? They would line us all up at the end of April and the vocal faculty would cut us down while our families sat in Eva Clare Hall with glitter signs.
Laura would so be the stuffy British one.
The food was croque monsieurs, a traditional French dish that is essentially a cross between a sandwich and French toast that is baked with cheese. Awesomeness was enjoyed by all.
As for the daytime tele, I just watched my first full episode of So You Think You Can Dance, an elimation episode at that and I will fully admit to all the world that by the end of it, I was openly weeping. I am reeeeeally not a reality show guy and a big part of that is the ego present on these shows, but these kids seemed so nice! First of all, no one on that show is conventionally beautiful. Would guy looks like the offspring of a tin soldier and a meerkat, ergo I would totally hit it. (In searching for that link, I went on the show's website and discovered that the competition is, in fact, already over. Meh. Fuck it; the tears are real.) Also, they just all seemed so overwhelmed to be there, like in the back of their minds they didn't really think they were deserving (musicalschoolsaywhat?). And then when the gorgeous little black girl and the ambiguously-sexualized white boy (Methodist) were sent packing, the tears! Oh the tears, how they came! And when the credits rolled and the funky music that signals the cast to start peacocking around the stage began, they instead rushed to the eliminated two and started crying too! And THEN when each of their dance partners got to them and they looked at each other and did the whole It-hurts-so-much-I-have-to-close-my-eyes hug...well, Vamos lost his shit.
That crew (can I say crew? NCAA ruling?) completely reminded me of my music school peeps in the first 2-3 years of our degree. Instead of being all backstabby and bitchy, the girls practically got on the same cycle. Instead of being all macho and standoffish the guys...well, we ate a lot of pie together. (I mean, it's not like we were out getting bro massages together *cough*Class of '10*cough*) Can you imagine if one of us was kicked off at the end of each semester? If at juries, instead of singing for marks, we were "singing for our lives!"? They would line us all up at the end of April and the vocal faculty would cut us down while our families sat in Eva Clare Hall with glitter signs.
Laura would so be the stuffy British one.
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